


Those Who Wait

by Nonia



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonia/pseuds/Nonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it is the mothers and wives and daughters that suffer the most while the fathers, husbands, and sons are off at war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Responce to the Hobbit Kink-meme prompt: 
> 
> So we don't actually know who Thrain's wife was, or what she was like. Was she kind and gentle, inclined to song and dance? Or a fierce warrior who could best her husband in mock duels? Or neither, or equally both? 
> 
> And does Thorin remember his mother? Does Dis? 
> 
> How did she die? Or, did she in fact live to hear the news of her son's and grandsons' demise? 
> 
>  
> 
> I just want stories, anons. Fluff, angst, everything in between - have all my love and feels.

The messenger ravens of war had not been seen in Dwarven skies for many years. Not since Azanulbizar. For the cost had been great then and recovery had been slow. 

Not since Azanulbizar had the ravens flown with the ribbons around their necks. 

Green ribbons for news of the war, red ribbons for news of the injured, and white ribbons for news of the dead. 

Not since Azanulbizar have the ravens flown the Dwarven skies, but now they do, for the fight of The Lonely Mountain commences, and the Dwarven men and women of the ruins of Erebor await to see if the Mountain would take from them this time, what it had failed to take from them the first time. 

Tales often speak of deeds fell and heroic in times of war. They speak of sacrifice and betrayal, of valour and cowardice. 

But they do not speak of those who wait. 

And she was one who had waited long, still waits long, for she was wife, mother, and grandmother to kings and heirs of the line of Durin. 

History would not speak her name, it would not remember her; however, it would speak of the stories of those whom she had lost, of whom her heart broke for and without. 

And now she sat, old, and broken, and weary and watched the skies and ravens and wondered, if this would be the day a white ribbon would come for her, for they were the line of Durin, and theirs was a line of tragedy, and not blessed with sorrowless victory. 

And so she watched the skies, and dreaded, and remembered. 

*****

Erebor had been splendid in its time, and celebrations of the heir’s union with his One had been great. Thrain and herself celebrated by the people as was tradition. 

She remembered her father-in-law, Thror, giving them his blessing and declaring her of their family. She remembered the Queen’s hands placing the braids into her hair that marked her as the heir-consort, the princess. 

They had gone into the forge together and created their seal for Mahal’s blessing by using the arts Mahal had taught their people. 

They were happy, and the shadow of the gold-sickness had not yet cast itself into their halls. She happily took the mantle of princess and soon she found herself with mantle of mother. 

Thorin, she named her first born. His seal crafted for him by no less than the Mighty King Thror himself. The seal placed under the boy’s pillow as tradition dictated, May Mahal’s blessing, crafts and protection flow into the little one. A hardy boy, one she could feel was destined for greatness. The celebrations had outshone even those of the union of Thror and his One. 

She could still, even in her old age, remember the small Dwarf in her arms. Often would he be taken from her by kith and kin to be spoiled, never had she found herself short with help. 

And yet, as the Dwarf’s laughter brightened their halls, their vaults became ever so much brighter with gold, and hearts grew heavier. Thror had seemed to spend more and more time in the vaults. Many a time had she needed to go into the vaults to collect her son who would play around the piles and under his Grandfather’s cloak. 

It seemed like scarce time had passed when her second announced her arrival into the world. Dis, she called this one, and the seal for this one was created by Thrain. For Thror no longer left the vaults but to seat himself upon his throne. And the celebrations for this one were not as large as the one before. Cradling the child to her bosom, the princess tried to push back the heaviness in her heart that spoke of tragedy in this child’s life. They were of the line of Durin, and a great line, and they would face what hardships would come to them and endure, for Mahal made them to endure. 

The years would pass, and Erebor would grow. Thror now possessed the Arkenstone, and as it shone above the throne, the light from the King’s eyes started to fade and her third was born. Frerin she called him. A bright child with golden hair, and they rejoiced, for hair of gold was deemed fortuitous. The celebrations seemed pale to her in comparison of the other two, but she did not speak of it. The child’s seal made by Thrain with the help of Thorin who had grown to be a quiet young Dwarf smitten with his Grandfather. 

With arms full of three little ones to raise, she pushed the thought of the King and his darkening gaze from her mind and raised her children as was proper for Erebor. She raised them to be of the line of Durin and taught them their ways and the ways of their people and could only hope they would not only be great, but grow to be good Dwarves. 

It seemed to her too soon that she saw her eldest stand by the throne of Thror. Bitterly had she quarrelled with her husband that he was too young, and bitterly was she reminded that they were of the line of Durin and therefore belonged to the throne and the mountain. 

It was then that she realised that her children were not her own, and her time with them had been borrowed. And for the first time, she resented the mountain. 

She remembered weeping bitterly, and her youngest easing her heart by promising he would never leave her and always be with her. 

Thorin had moved to his grandfather’s chambers as the years progressed, asking for no blessing for the move as was tradition. His move was secret, like Thror’s sickness and she resented the mountain again.

Then the wyrm came upon them. Frerin running into her rooms and carrying her out as Thrain did for Dis and Thorin for Thror. Long had they run and fled until they had to rest and though her family lived, watching them vow to reclaim the Mountain she knew they were lost to her. And she resented the mountain anew.

She learned to resent the ravens as well when news of Azanulbizar started to arrive. The first raven to fly to her bringing the white ribbon with the rune for /F/ telling her of her youngest’s promise to her broken like he lay broken upon a battle field. Weeping, she had cursed the Mountain that had brought the wyrm to them and forced them into their exile and half mad with grief she scarcely saw the second raven to arrive with the royal crest upon its white ribbon followed closely by a raven holding a green ribbon with the rune for victory upon it. 

The battle was won. The King had died. And deep inside she rejoiced, for she blamed Thror for the loss of Frerin. 

Tradition would dictate she would lead their people on the march to meet with the host on the way to the Blue Mountains, and yet her heart had been so rent with sorrow that whispers of madness followed her and it was Dis who led their people to meet with the warriors of Azanulbizar. 

She remembered that day vividly, even in her old age. For she sat in her tent and looked up at her only living son, tall and proud, who would go onto his knees in front of her and tell her of the story of Thrain, and his madness and loss into the wild. 

And she now hated the Mountain even more as her son laid his head upon her knees and she laid her hand on his head to recite a blessing of Mahal in thanks of returning this one to her at least. 

The battle of Azanulbizar made her Princess to Queen to Queen-mother, and she hated the Mountain anew. For it had taken Thror, and Thrain, and Frerin from this world, and had taken Thorin as well, for though Thorin had bent his head upon his mother’s knees to silently weep, it was Thorin II Oakenshield that had stood from his mother’s knees to face their people and lead them to the Blue Mountains. 

The Blue Mountains brought more into the line of Durin, for she was now Grandmother as well. She had refused to say the Mountain’s blessing upon the eldest, Fili, golden haired, like Frerin, as was tradition, she refused to acknowledge him as heir of the Lonely Mountain, for she wanted nothing to do with the mountain and had been estranged from her children afterwards. Dis and Thorin loved the Mountain and its traditions and thought it ill-luck to refuse the traditions. And she now loathed the mountain and lived in a haze of hate.

The years would pass and she would float through her life and her haze would be broken by portents speaking of the time to reclaim the mountain. 

In one last bid to reconcile with his mother, Thorin had visited her, asking for her blessing on the quest to reclaim the Mountain. He would go and he would take the little ones with him. The conversation would echo into her mind. For he had come to her and knelt by her knee like he had so many years ago, and for one small moment, she felt her son return to her. 

She had placed her old hands upon his head as he whispered of quests to her and wearily she had asked, “Why do you insist, Thorin? Why chase the dreams and gold of ghosts?”

And he had spoken of never forgetting. He had spoken of never forgiving and she warned, “Illuvatar himself had forgot and forgiven. Had he not forgiven Mahal’s making of the Dwarves?”

She would remember him going still. She would remember him shaking his head in denial, preferring portents of reclaiming the mountain over warnings of the blasphemy of forgetting Illuvatar’s lessons. 

She would remember the feel of his forehead against hers as he bid her farewell. And she loathed the mountain even more.

And now she sat and watched the ravens bring news of the battle of the Lonely Mountain and waited. 

The first raven had arrived with a white ribbon with the crest of the heir and she would listen to Dis wail in despair and her own heart would break with her. 

The second raven would arrive a day after with the crest of the King on its ribbon and she marvelled at Mahal’s craft, for it seemed impossible for any other race to be able to withstand this much pain and sorrow.

The third raven would arrive two days after with the sigil of their youngest, sister-son of the king and younger brother to the heir and Dis was lost to grief and her One lost to madness, taking his own life. 

And she despised the mountain. And cursed the mountain. And refused to join Dain at the mountain for it had given death to all she held dear, and would not give her death to join them. 

And so she lived, and grew older in the Blue Mountains, and waited for Mahal to finally show her mercy and call her to join her family... and waited... and waited...


End file.
